The Many Facets of Artemis Entreri
by chair-chan
Summary: Really self explanatory. Basically several different viewpoints and facets of the gem that is Artemis Entreri. Finished as is, but may be added on to when inspiration strikes. Enjoy!
1. Generous Beyond Measure

Broken Child

The Many Facets of Artemis Entreri: Chapter 1

Featuring:

Generous Beyond Measure

Disclaimer: not mine, this is the only disclaimer you'll see in the story, it just interrupts the flow too much.

A/N: The companion pieces are as follows: Chapters 1 and 5, 2 and 6, 3 and 7, and lastly 4 and 8. They go in a backward fashion, 5 happening chronologically before 1, 6 before 2, etc. Thus things are revealed in a roundabout way...forgive me. 

This is actually a series of ficlets centering around Artemis Entreri, each one (hopefully) revealing a different facet of his personality through the eyes of many different people, including himself. Unlike so-called collections of ficlets that begin and end in only one chapter, this will actually have at least six chapters. I may add more as the mood strikes me, but as far as I am concerned, this is complete as posted. Enjoy. 

(I just learned that SurreptitiousChix has a fic of the exact same title about Jarlaxle [except instead of Artemis Entreri it says Jarlaxle. It happens to be very good. Go on out and try it.) Sorry about the extra long A/N. None of the other chapters will have an A/N because it interrupts the flow too much.

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The child looked up at Artemis in awe. He looked down on it in pity, compassion.

"So you are what is produced when my will breaks down, hmm?" Artemis muttered softly to himself. Despite seeing attachments as a weakness, he was very sorry that he had not known the child since birth. He had an almost insane need to prove to himself that he was not like his father or his uncle or his mother; he was different.

He would not beat or rape his own child. He would not stand by and let his son be abused by anybody, let alone a family member. He would be different.

He sighed and once again let his gaze rest on the dark-haired youngster. Then his gaze shifted to its mother, one of the only concessions he had ever allowed himself in his seemingly long life.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he murmured softly, eyes filling with pain for what the child would have had to endure: a life on the streets of Calimport, worth no more than the slime on the docks. A life spent primarily scrounging about for food, and finding places to hide that food, trying to escape the beatings the older urchins would bestow if they found it.

"What, tell the infamously volatile assassin Artemis Entreri that he has a son? I assure you, I was not that crazy then, and I am not so crazy now." She said, her dark eyes flashing. He had always secretly admired her then for her fire, her spark; now he found himself wishing she had possessed more of it, enough to tell him about his child.

"I would not have gotten angry." Probably.

The empty word hung in the air, unsaid, but pressing down on them all the same.

Even now, Artemis was fighting to control himself. He could barely stop his voice from conveying his murderous rage. His muscles were wound tight. They quivered with the amount of suppression he was placing on himself, aching to spring, to be let loose, set free—to kill something, see dark red blood flow.

"With you, Artemis, one can never be sure." She said bitterly, her hair hanging lankly in front of her face, free of its confining bun.

It was a measure of his then-respect for her that she could even call him by his first name, and not die upon his blades. Men and women alike had gurgled their last breaths at his hands after gauging his temperament badly. Spluttered and coughed up blood, his jeweled dagger impaled in their hearts, or sheathed within a lung. He was no man _or_ woman's playtoy. Respect had to be earned. Privileges came with it; one was the ability to utter his name without swift and sudden death.

He could count on one hand the amount of people who had earned such respect from him. The one standing in front of him had just lost it.

Entreri resisted the urge to utter the completely meaningless word 'why'. It was devoid of any bearing on the situation. He knew why she had not told him; she had just revealed it. She had been afraid. She had considered his reputation before what she personally knew about him. She had been stupid, and on top of that, a coward.

This was nothing new to Artemis. Human beings often ignored vital facts in their fear or panic. It was a trait he had tried to train himself out of. Many a victim had tried to bribe him out of their death, ignoring the fact that such money had no meaning for him.

Anybody was free to commission a hit from him, if they had payment. His legacy revolved around the fact that as soon as he received as much information as possible and half of the sum, there was no moving him. Neither deeds to palaces nor offers of riches could bore through his mental armor.

At that point, Artemis Entreri had one purpose: the elimination of his target. Any that tried to sway him only guaranteed themselves a swifter death.

If there was one thing Artemis despised, it was cowards.

Cowards such as the one standing before him. Yet, this was one coward that he couldn't kill. It wouldn't do to leave his child motherless, after all. He once again peered down on it. While he had been going through his morbid calculations, the child still stared up at him in rapt attention, its expression shifting not at all.

The danger to the child from his enemies, now that he knew about it and acknowledged it, was very low. People within Entreri's own guild wouldn't even dare think about eliminating the boy; Pook would immediately toss them out on their asses, and in all likelihood would commission a hit instantly—if he did not, Artemis would take pleasure in doing the job free of cost.

Any other guild within Calimport was too minor to even consider, and they would not want to risk the wrath of Artemis Entreri and Pasha Pook. It would virtually insure the destruction of their guild.

Foreigners were something to consider; it would not take them long to get wind of this new development. There was always a crazy man out there who could decide to try to hurt Entreri, no matter the cost. He would just have to hire reliable guards. Meanwhile, he would have to train the child in the fighting arts.

The only man he trusted enough to do the job right was himself.

Perhaps that was what set him apart.

Artemis filed that thought away for further contemplation, and turned back to the matter at hand. The boy would have to be schooled, of course, as well as trained. Artemis supposed that he would have to house the boy and his mother in something better than the squalor they were surely living in now.

"He will be trained," There was no question in his wording, "by me."

"He will not follow in your footsteps. I will not _allow_ him to take up your profession." Her tone was steely; Artemis could tell she meant it. Too bad he didn't care. But he hated the fact that she couldn't see, couldn't understand. The boy was his son, too. Did she think Artemis had actually _wanted_ to end up an assassin? No. But nonetheless, it had happened, and Entreri was perfect at anything he did, be it painting idyllic landscapes, or dealing death. But most to the point, it had happened, and there had been nothing he could have done about it. What made her think he would wish the same horrible conditions he had been plagued with upon his son?

"Nor would I want him to." He said coldly, frustrated. His tone was ice to her steel. Oddly, she seemed to almost relax as soon as he said those words, but not quite.

"He will be hunted if you acknowledge him." She said guardedly, her eyes hooded, shaded from his gaze.

"Thus the training." Artemis said, quickly losing his patience. He once again considered if killing its mother would be too traumatizing for the boy; once again, he came to the conclusion that it would likely damage it for life. "I will pay for his education. I will house you in a modest apartment. I will provide for an apprenticeship in whatever trade he wishes. I am being generous beyond measure. What complaints do you have?"

He was _this_ close to severing her spine.

Her hardened face _almost_ collapsed. She _almost_ let out a sob. She _almost_ fell to the ground to beg for forgiveness. But she could not. She had done what she had felt was right at the time; he had no right to judge her as if he was to be her executioner (although considering his profession, he might well have been). But Entreri saw. His eyes softened marginally. The corners of his mouth almost undetectably pulled upwards, trying to rise from the frown they were currently locked in.

"I..._thank you_." She whispered, her tone wavering. "Artemis...I'm so sorry for not telling you at first, but...I was afraid you'd view him as a weakness, like you did me. I was _afraid_. Do you not understand that? Have you never felt it?!" At the end she was railing at his unmoving features, his unbending outlook.

"...Yes." he said, trying to decide whether or not to grace her with a response. "But ever since I became Artemis Entreri, I have never allowed it to sway my actions." He was struck with a strong urge to turn on his heel and make a dramatic exit, but he subdued the urge. He had a responsibility with this woman and this boy.

It was hard to admit to himself, but he probably _would_ have considered the child a weakness. While he _could_ fault the woman for not telling him, as technically any man _could_ ignore all laws and do as he pleased, he was, by his own logic, unable to do so.

"As I have never been in your position, I cannot judge you." He admitted, letting go of his pride. "Any scenarios of 'would haves' never survive in reality. I do not blame you, as your predictions might have been true. But now that I am six years older—six years wiser—I will not react the same way. Come with me."

"Thank you." The woman murmured. "Thank you." She sobbed, finally collapsing to the ground and scrabbling at his feet. "Thank you." She repeated again and again, the words slurring into each other until all that was coming from her mouth was a stream of broken rabble, continuing on and on.

Artemis looked down on her in disgust, and shook her clutching hands from his feet, twisting her claw-like grip from his pants.

"Come." He told the boy, and began walking away. He did not wait for the woman, instead making her run to catch up to him. "I am Artemis Entreri, your father. What is your name?"

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The End

This chapter is a little over five pages.


	2. Driving Trainer and Imperfect God

The Many Facets of Artemis Entreri: Chapter 2

Featuring:

Driving Trainer and Imperfect God

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Colin looked up at his father. He was so tall, compared to Colin's pre-growth spurt height. His gray eyes always bored into Colin when they knew he'd done something wrong. The thin lips were always ready to praise and reprimand him. The scarred hands were quick to catch him, be it trying to escape alone to the market or from a fall.

Colin complained each time he was caught. Just because his father was an assassin with many enemies didn't mean that he should have guards with him wherever he went! But somehow, he was always caught.

As he had grown older, he began to realize why there was so much security around him; his father was not just _some_ assassin. He was **the** assassin.

He always heard whispers in the dark, mutters as people skirted him widely. He'd always wondered why people were so wary of him; it had started at about the age of six, when his father had learnt of his existence and acknowledged him. Now, at the age of thirteen, he had realized why everybody gave him, a stupid youngling, so much respect.

Artemis Entreri ruled the Underworld as surely as Pasha Pook ruled the Thieves Guild. No man, woman, or child in the lower echelons of Calimport hadn't heard of him; most could recite his assassinations by heart. They were, simply, afraid. It made Colin want to laugh. His father wouldn't murder people just because they treated his son badly! He was much more just than that!

It always amused Colin that, while so many people could list his father's exploits, since he had been caught not even once, and no evidence materialized, he could not be prosecuted by law. And if he was, Pasha Pook would surely spring him out. Or Artemis would get out by himself.

Yes, decided Colin, that was most likely. He turned to face his father just as he was tossed two scimitars. He looked at them in confusion.

"You have learned the pairing of a dagger and a sword well. Now it is time to move on." Said his father in an even tone.

"Since I have graduated, father, may I duel you one last time with my former weapons? Maybe I'll win, and then I can walk around by myself." Entreri had decreed that when Colin could beat him, he could go anywhere he wanted by himself; if he could defeat Artemis, there were none, aside from perhaps Drizzt Do'Urden, who would be able to even touch him.

The honest hope in his son's voice made Artemis smile, and he held out a hand for one of the scimitars. Colin tossed it to him, and his father caught it perfectly, in the same motion tossing a dagger to his son. Colin caught it as well, but fumbled with it a bit.

That, alone, demonstrated that there was no hope for him as of yet. No man ever sent after him would fumble with a weapon. But Artemis smiled his sad smile, and moved slightly forward, crouching loosely with is knees bent and fluid.

Colin made the first move, lunging forward. Artemis jumped back. The two were soon engaged in a fast-paced fight. It was obvious to any watcher, though, that Colin was way below his father's level.

While the practiced assassin's moves were smooth and fluid, Colin's were jerky. While the assassin knew the value of dodges and when to implement them, Colin was always ready to brashly jump ahead. Where Artemis was silent, his son made much sound, roaring in anger, breathing hard. All of Entreri's traits would be learned only with time and experience. The only thing that mattered was that the basic moves were there.

Colin looked up as his father foiled another of his attacks. Artemis was perfect! How could he ever be beaten?

But suddenly, as another attack failed, Colin realized what he might be doing wrong. He sat back and circled silently. Roaring, he knew, would only advertise his intentions; he locked his jaw into place.

Attacking first, in a duel like this, was also letting his opponent know which block to use. So Colin sat back, and decided to let his father attack. As soon as he did this, he could see his father's approval. The entire duel, the older man had been dodging; maybe Colin should do the same.

The duel seemed now to shift to Colin's favor, but he was not stupid, and he knew that his father was ten times better than he. It was only a ruse, a feint to get him off guard. It would not work.

Thus, he was wary when Artemis lunged forward, sword parrying Colin's and dagger ending up at his neck in the 'kill' position.

To Entreri's surprise, he found his son's dagger at the same position.

He broke away with a rare smile. "Good." He said. Colin gave an answering smile; very rarely did he get praise. It meant that much more when he finally did. "You know what you have to practice. If it was a real duel, we'd both be dead."

"More likely just me." Colin muttered, knowing that 'good' wasn't enough. He had to be perfect. Like his father.

Artemis frowned. "All your life you have been fighting only me. I do not think you realize that most other men have not even half my skill. If you can fight me to an impasse, you no longer need to fear for your life."

"It's not enough. It's never enough." Colin said proudly. When he was perfect, it would be enough.

"You should take pride in your accomplishments." Artemis admonished, shaking his head.

"Yes, father." Said Colin dutifully. He spoke in the 'I don't agree with you but I'm not going to argue' tone. His father looked at him, and sighed.

"That is enough for today. We'll start on the dual-sword style tomorrow. I have a little errand for you to run." Colin perked up at that. Whenever Artemis Entreri had 'errands' for him to run, it meant that Colin was going on a training exercise. His father gave him the address to the shop he was going to, but did not tell him what he was going to pick up. He specified no route; that meant that Colin was to be shadowed.

The boy smiled. Those were his favorite training runs, when he needed to find those following him, and take care of them.

"When do you want me to go?" Colin asked.

"Not now." His father said. "Perhaps after dinner, if we eat early today. Go and ask your mother when she is serving dinner." His father and mother had fallen back into an uneasy relationship in the years spanning their separation; Colin had a feeling that it was more for him than for their own companionship. The only times they saw each other were when their son was concerned.

Colin filled in the time before dinner by setting out the things he would need. He changed into baggier clothes, which would give a scout no count of how many weapons were secreted on his person.

Any person attacking him would be surprised at the amount of daggers he stealthily hid within the deep folds his clothes. His dual dagger and sword were openly slung over his hips. He had wrist- and bicep-sheaths, each one filled with another flat-bladed weapon. Of course there was a throwing star in each boot. Another dagger was hidden on his neck, under his long-ish hair, and a last one was hanging from a chain around his neck like a medallion.

Colin looked at himself in the long, full-length mirror hanging on his wall. No hint of the deadly weapons he clothed himself in was forthcoming. Of course, knowing who he was, and more importantly, who his father was, would lead most to expect the hidden blades.

The shirt he wore was steel-plated in an inconspicuous way. A light plate covering most of his vital organs was sewn into the shirt, in both front and back. His more vulnerable arms and shoulders were protected by chain-mail literally woven into the cloth.

In this shirt, Colin felt secure.

In contrast, the boots and pants he wore were completely regular; a leg blow, while potentially crippling, would not kill you unless you bled to death.

Colin sighed, and told himself to stop delaying the inevitable: an uncomfortable dinner with both parents staring awkwardly at each other and turning to him for conversation topics.

Over everything, he secured his flowing black trench-coat and drew up the cowl, admiring the air of mystery it gave him. Then he pulled it back off, and tossed the black material back on his bed; his mother would get a heart attack if she saw him dressed like that on the table. She was adamant that he not follow in his father's footsteps, and while Colin had not intention of becoming an assassin, this training he was receiving couldn't hurt.

The dinner was just as awkward as he had predicted. As soon as Colin had finished his dessert, Artemis walked him back up to his room, seeming glad for an excuse to get away. He helped his son to adjust the trench-coat and cowl to perfection, and then exited the room. Colin knew that he would ghost away from the house on silent feet, leaving no signs of his passing.

Colin himself left out of his window, jumping down the meager two stories and rolling on impact. He had learned at a young age how to jump from heights without becoming injured. He sought to emulate his father, pretending that he was a phantom. After several seconds, Colin remembered that he was on a mission, and expanded his senses, putting himself on high-alert. But it was already too late; in the short while that he had been distracted, he'd acquired a tail.

When, after skirting from shadow to shadow for almost ten minutes, Colin sensed a person above him, on the rooftops, moving whenever he moved, he almost dismissed it. The feeling persisted. Then, just to make sure, he doubled back, and crossed the street. When he walked on this side, there were no footsteps, no presence. But after only about a minute, the footsteps resumed, this time behind him.

Colin continued onward, outwardly oblivious to the danger his shadow presented. Inside, though, he was calculating as his father had taught him. He could try to lose the presence, or he could knock the person out. He chose that path, entering a tavern off the street. Then he sat down at a table watching the door. Several people entered, but none had the same distinctive pattern of footfalls. He sat and waited. When it became clear that the person was not going to enter, he put his back-up plan into action.

Colin Entreri was well aware that most taverns had at least three entrances; so did his follower. But the scout probably had no idea that Colin was onto him. Colin took the chance and slunk into the stable by the back entrance. He then assumed the slouch and swagger of a man that has drunk a little too much, but is still sober enough to catch a thief fingering his belt-pouch. As soon as he was out near the street, though, he melted into the shadows. As he approached the front of the building, he could see a man loitering in the front. He kept on stealing looks inside, but whenever another person passed by, he melted into the shadows. As the door to the tavern opened from the inside, he straightened and readied his daggers. Yes, Colin decided, this was his man.

He quickly snuck closer, and while the man was busy trying to see whether the person leaving the tavern was him or not, Colin rapped him on the skull with his dagger-hilt. The man went down like a stone, and Colin picked him up, becoming one with the shadows until there was nobody immediately surrounding him. He carried the man until he reached the nearest alleyway, and dumped him there. Then he continued on his mission, automatically scanning around himself for more danger. He could sense none, but that didn't mean none was around.

He soon reached his destination. He rapped on the door, and a strong-looking man answered it. The man took one look at Colin's face, and disappeared, reappearing with a knapsack. Colin swung it over his shoulder and walked off, not bothering with payment or the like. If the man hadn't asked, he'd already been paid. His father had made no mention of money, so that meant none was owed.

Colin had thought that he'd disposed of the sentry, so he was understandably startled when several dark shapes landed around him. But, as his father always said, a true assassin (Colin wasn't sure when he had started thinking of himself in these terms) is never surprised, and even when he is, the surprise does not affect his actions. He swiftly darted between two of the people and tried to melt into the shadows.

It didn't work.

Several more people dropped down right in front of his path, and before Colin could say 'what do you want?' he was surrounded.

Colin glanced around, trying to survey the area as he had always been admonished. The cobblestones were broken up; he would have to watch those. The alleyway was narrow; there weren't that many who could pass at once. That meant that they all couldn't converge on him at once. There were shadows everywhere that both he and his enemies could use to their advantage; another thing he had to watch for.

He unsheathed his wrist knives. Then he realized that the enemies had left one grappling hook still attached to the roof. Sloppy, he mused, but was thankful that he had a way out. If only he could fight his way to it without being too obvious...

Then it was starting.

Colin furled out one hand with great accuracy. A dagger hit one shape's throat. It went down. A man lunged at him. Colin drew his scimitar. He pinned the other man's weapon between his two blades, and twisted, disarming him. His leg whirred out, and hit the man on the side of his face. It snapped to the side. He fell down and didn't get up.

That left seven or eight more shapes—eight, Colin counted—that had yet to be exterminated. He moved efficiently in the manner that his father had taught him. He had earlier incapacitated the two men nearest to the alley wall, and he could now get his back against it.

He did so immediately, and stared at all of the shapes converging on him. He held his scimitar by his side, and then suddenly stuck it out and spun in a circle. It was a move that gutted both of the men approaching. They fell to the ground and twitched. The last six were much warier. They approached Colin with respect for his skills. One, he was able to target when he tripped over the body of one of his comrades. He quickly tossed a dagger, trusting in his skills. He checked that the man was down, though; trusting in one's skills and being cocky are two different things. The next five kicked the bodies out of the way without taking their eyes off him. One raised his weapon, a mace, and rushed in. The other four came in side by side.

Colin tried the same sword-slashing tactic that he'd done before, hoping that the men were stupid. No such luck. A kick momentarily stunned the mace-wielder, but the others zoomed in. Taking a chance, and knowing that he could not hope to defeat that many enemies at once, he broke free of the advancing circle, and lunged at the rope. He shimmied up it in a few seconds, and threw down the grapple, watching it hit the mace-man's head with satisfaction. He looked around, but saw nobody on the roofs. Even so, he was cautious, pretending once again to be the phantom. He made several detours before finally deciding that nobody was following him, and climbed back into his room, taking extra care that their guards wouldn't see him, again through his window.

There, he took off his trench-coat. When something thumped on the bed, he started in surprise. He'd all but forgotten about the knapsack he'd been sent to retrieve.

The urge to look inside it was enormous, but he resisted—that just wasn't professional—and instead stripped off the last of his weapons. He changed into his night clothes, set his dual blades well within reach, and went to sleep.

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"Here's your package, father." Colin presented the knapsack to his father.

"Did you look to see what it was?" Artemis asked sternly. Colin honestly shook his head.

"That's not professional, is it?" he asked softly. Artemis smiled, and came forward, embracing his son.

"You did very well. Better than I would have done at your age." he said seriously. Colin felt happiness blooming in his chest, warming him. "I am proud of you. You noticed the grappling-hook, and your fighting was perfect. The man you kicked actually had to be sent to a healer; his neck was broken."

"I'm sorry."

"No. It's good. When you are actually in a situation like that, you should think nothing of wounding your opponents. Later, when you are safe, you can regret what you were pushed to. When you're still alive."

"Thank you, father." Said Colin. "But I'm curious. How did they find me?"

"There were two scouts." His father said. "One on the roofs and one on the ground, in case you decided to do exactly what you did. By the time you knocked out the one on the ground, the roof man was able to get down and keep on shadowing you."

"Oh." Colin said, and smacked his hand to his forehead. "I feel stupid."

"Don't." his father said. "Now I feel that you have truly mastered the dagger-and-scimitar pairing. As such, I have a gift for you. Well, perhaps two gifts." Colin's eyes shone at the mention of gifts. His father's gifts were always exactly what Colin needed; functional _and_ pleasing.

His father looked at the knapsack he was holding, and handed it back to Colin. His gaze was ironic. Colin openly laughed, and loosened the draw-string. He finally loosened it enough, and drew out first a sword, and then a dagger. Both had fine leather sheaths, and when he drew them, both blades' ripples spoke of fine quality steel.

"There's nothing magical or unusual about them—those you have to go on quests for—but they're functional, and that's all that counts, for now." Artemis said, breaking Colin out of his admiring for the blades.

"Thank you." Colin said gravely, knowing how much weapons like these cost. Then again, money mattered little to Artemis Entreri; he could make the price of these blades a thousand times over in only one hit. His price only went up the longer he stayed King of the Underworld assassins. "They mean...a lot to me."

"You're welcome." His father said, again pulling him into a hug. Then, he smiled boyishly, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Want to test them out?" he asked.

"What do you think?" Colin wanted to know.

"Let's go." Artemis said, walking towards their training-room. "We'll test your blades against mine; see whose will last longer."

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The End

A/N: This one is just over nine pages. Enjoy.


	3. Cold Assassin

The Many Facets of Artemis Entreri: Chapter 3

Featuring:

Cold Assassin

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Artemis Entreri prowled down the corridors of Pasha Pook's guild. He'd received an official summons. He narrowed his eyes, scattering all in his path. There was only one reason Pook ever called for him.

He needed somebody eliminated.

And, as always, Entreri was the one to do the dirty work. He allowed himself a humorless laugh, and walked right up to Pook's door. The hill-giant eunuchs Pook kept as guards knew well enough to immediately let him through. The last time they'd kept him waiting, the offender had found himself forever bedridden due to a spinal injury. Entreri had just smiled and hadn't bothered unsheathing his blade; he'd used the pommel to ram into the man's lower back.

It wouldn't do to get blood all over Pook's carpets, after all.

Artemis smiled the feral smile that made those around him cringe, and graciously nodded to the guards who had hurried to open the doors for him. The one he'd nodded to flinched, and Artemis' smile widened.

"Ah, Artemis!" said the Pasha seemingly merrily. He sat on his large throne, his copious amounts of blubber strained at his clothes. He was, aside from Theerla, one of the only people Artemis allowed to call him by his first name, but that was only because he was his boss. Artemis had almost no respect for the man, as it were.

Whenever Artemis was bored, he amused himself by trying to predict which button on the man's rich clothing would pop first. He'd found it had much to do with which gesture he made. Of course, as soon as a button popped, it was magically replaced—all of his clothes were enchanted as such.

'_Can't have his clothes falling off, can we?_' Thought Artemis sardonically. '_Because that's what would happen if he didn't have that particular magical charm. I wonder if a stray button has ever hit someone in the face._'

He was very glad Pook didn't hire the services of a psionicist; if he did, the large man would have been very displeased.

"Well?" Artemis said impatiently. He'd had two hits commissioned just this week, but was waiting for information. Still, time was money, and he didn't tolerate anybody taking up his.

Morbidly, his eyes were drawn back to Pook's clothes. The man was in denial, pure and simple. He wore clothes that, while they would have been a more than a little baggy on Artemis, would have fit alright on the slight man. Pook was more than five times Artemis' size.

The assassin stifled a chuckle, and fixed his attention on Pook's face, waiting for his boss' commands.

"I have some information you may find useful." Said the man, without preamble. He gestured to the shadows, and another hill-giant eunuch stepped forward, a sheaf of papers within his meaty fist. Artemis took the papers, but he was sure that this wasn't the main reason he'd been called up.

"Thank you." He nodded.

"Any time, my dear boy." He said jovially. "Anything I can do to help." Artemis internally shook his head, knowing that Pook always had a motive behind his moves.

That was alright. So did Artemis.

"Now what can I do to help?" Artemis said a little cautiously. He knew he'd judged the man right when Pook roared out a huge laugh.

The Pasha wasn't as inane as he led others to believe. Artemis knew that he was a completely shrewd man, intelligent and cruel. It was the only way one could run the Thieves Guild, after all.

"Ah, you always know how to make me laugh." The portly man said, slapping his knee. "I don't ask for anything in return. However, you'll find in the sheaf of papers just a little something I've gathered on Sudin Al'Kreysha. He is an upstart little merchant who has amassed quite a fortune. But, most worryingly," This, Pook said with a grieved look, "he has stopped gracing our collection boxes with his good-will. I wish to know whether harm has befallen him, and if it has, I'd like to extend a courteous and generous gesture. Bring him to me, so that I may have a word with him, and ascertain the extent of his ill luck." Pook's expression showed genuine concern, but Entreri knew he was thinking only of torturing the man. He stifled a laugh at the Pasha's flowery phrases. He admired the way Pook had with words, twisting them around to suit him while still making his preferred outcome perfectly clear.

"I will surely stop by to enquire what sickness has befallen him." And if this sickness is rebellion, he thought and left unsaid.

"I am so glad you understand what I mean!" said Pook delightedly. "But be gentle with him; none of your rough assassin ways will do! He must be in the pink of health when he sees me. I do not enjoy bodily fluids on my rugs." Artemis nodded, and another hill-giant came forward with a purse. He would bet his life that the purse contained several strong healing potions. By saying that what he did, and giving him the potions, Pook was giving him leave to torture the man if he so wished it, but he wanted the man healed before he saw him.

Artemis hated torture. It reminded him too much of what had been done to him.

He didn't like remembering.

Anyways, he rationalized, he was an assassin, not a torturer. He delivered quick killings, not slow deaths.

Again, he nodded at Pook, and turned when the man waved a lazy hand at him. That was his signal to leave. He strode out of the room, preoccupied, and made his way to his rooms, just down the hall. He checked all of the traps—magical and not—before entering the room, and giving it the same treatment. Then, he sat down at his desk, lit his oil lamp, and looked at the first paper in the bundle he held in his hands.

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Artemis pulled his hood higher up on his head, to cover his features more. Not that he needed to be recognized. Any person on the street this late at night, dressed in black, could have only one purpose in mind. He was avoided.

The information that Pook had given him on his targets had helped immensely. He knew to take everything cautiously, but it had all panned out when compared to everything he already knew. Now, he was hunting his first target: Ghordian Malaysha.

The man was new in the importation industry, and he was competition for the older and more established merchants. They'd hired Entreri to eliminate him, but in a special way—they didn't want anybody to think it was just an accident.

In a way, it was meant to be a warning to other upstarts.

Artemis didn't really care exactly why he'd been hired; all he cared about was that the merchants had the given the guild the appropriate amount of gold, and he'd been picked to do the job. As such, he got 75 of the payment. For a lesser assassin, it would have been less, but Pook knew that Artemis could easily go freelance.

After all, who _didn't_ know the name Artemis Entreri?

The intelligent Pasha wanted to keep his pet assassin happy. Artemis knew he was getting a good deal, so he didn't mind. He had lavish quarters, any sort of meal he liked at any time he wanted it, access to a private bathing room, _and_ he got most of the payment to the guild. Life was good.

In return, of course, the guild got the reputation of Artemis Entreri, the man who never failed a job.

That, perhaps, was even more valuable.

Artemis shook all thoughts from his mind. He was close. He must not be seen entering the importer's compound. All that he could allow into his brain were details about the man's schedule and the floor-plan of the house.

He ghosted in, finding infiltration laughably easy. Apparently, the man was either complacent or extremely stupid. The walls of the house were a rocky façade; perhaps stylish, but easy to climb. There were no guards that Artemis could see, and his information hadn't mentioned anything about guards.

He stifled a grin, and looked up. There, only a floor above him, was an open window! He crawled up quickly, and then stopped, blending in with the stone in the darkness, as he peeked in. Nobody was in. He slipped into the room, and corrected himself; there was a cradle, off to the side, with a baby in it.

Artemis ignored the child. He was not a baby-killer, although with the fate it would have, perhaps that would be kinder.

He shrugged, and stealthily stepped out of the room.

This late at night, nobody was up. He suppressed an evil cackle, and made his way to what he knew from the plans to the building was the master bedroom. Sure enough, when he peeked inside the keyhole, it was.

He oiled the hinges on the door quickly and efficiently, making sure no grate or squeak would announce his presence. Then he felt on the outside of the door for any traps. There were none.

He withdrew a wand from his belt, and tapped the door quietly. There were no magical alarms—at least, none the wand could sense. He softly, slowly, opened the door. It made not a sound. He stepped in, and closed the doors behind him. Then he tiptoed gently to the bed. He had to make sure he had the right target, after all.

Yes. The man matched all accounts of him, from his gaunt features to his ridiculous moustache. The mole was in the right place, and the birthmark on his neck was correctly placed...Even the woman in the bed next to him matched his information.

Artemis withdrew a padded piece of cloth, and then drew his dagger with his other hand. He jammed the cloth into the man's mouth at the same time as he gently slid his dagger across the man's neck.

For a second, the man's eyes snapped open, and then he was gone. The blood began to bubble and spurt from the wound.

Artemis nodded in satisfaction; the gag had done its work. He withdrew it, and put it back in his belt-purse. Then he set to work, quickly making a few slashes on the man's face. He stood back and pursed his lips, surveying his handiwork. Yes, that was most satisfactory.

His employers would be pleased.

The assassin escaped the way he came, crawling down the front walls. This was slightly risky, but he was down in so little time there was no way anybody could catch him. Nobody would know anything was amiss.

At least, not until the man's wife woke up, the feeling of wetness on her chest jerking her out of her pleasant dreams.

Not until she looked upon her beloved husband's face, and noticed his neck gaping open, and a crude etching of a ship on one cheek, money on the other.

Artemis allowed himself a quiet chuckle, and wiped his dagger on a special cloth he kept in his belt-purse. An assassin leaves no evidence aside from the bodies, he'd been taught, and he always adhered to that rule. The cloth would later be burnt, as well as the gag, the ashes scattered to the winds.

He had a few hours to himself, but when night turned to dawn, he had another job to do. Another uppity merchant to collect, another warning to issue—but this time, the warning would be given to the man, not the man made into the warning.

Artemis smiled at the irony of it all, and walked down to the dock. He sat on the edge of the pier, and took in the smells of the ocean.

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Artemis Entreri was once more stalking through the streets of Calimport. This time, though, his target was not to kill anybody—although what Pook had in store for the man would probably be worse than death.

_This_ merchant's compound, however, was heavily guarded. Entreri cursed in his head at the cruel irony of it: when all he needed was a quick slash of a knife, there was no fuss at all, with nothing keeping him from his goal; but when he needed to emerge with his prey alive and kicking, there was heavy supervision.

Marvelous.

Entreri didn't have much time to dawdle, so after a few minutes, darting from shadow to shadow, he climbed up the walls of a neighboring building. He took a moment to freeze and look around. Nobody had noticed him.

He judged how hard it would be to jump to the roof of the other building; not impossible, he reckoned. From all of his intelligence, the man had no security of his roof, but it never hurt to make sure. Turning a ring on his hand left, his eyesight suddenly became as sharp as a hawk's. In the light of the sun, just beginning to rise, he could see no traps. He withdrew a wand, waved it at the roof, and groaned. Magical traps littered the roof in abundance. Luckily, he had a solution for that.

Artemis stuck one hand in his belt-pouch, searching with only his fingertips for the dangerous item residing in it. When he found it, he quickly brought it out, and took care to fasten his pouch securely once more. This would be an exercise in precision.

His specialty.

Artemis looked at the circular object he held in his hand. It was jet-black, but other than that, seemed like a child's play ball, to toss around. Its actual use was much more complicated.

He gauged the distance. Wherever the ball landed, that's where he would have to leap...

Artemis knew the plans of the building, and so selected the most advantageous room to drop into: the man's bedroom.

The assassin took one last look, wound up his arm, and threw. The ball landed exactly where he'd been aiming, as always, and began to expand into an inter-dimensional hole. It would span the stone of the roof, and allow him to drop right into the man's bedroom. Artemis had no time for smugness, though. He whispered one word, and the hole stopped growing. He took one look, narrowed his eyes, and took a running leap. He dropped neatly through the hole, and had to twist in mid-air to avoid the man's bed.

Then, he crept up. The man was sleeping, in bed with his wife. Artemis smirked.

The parallels were ironic.

He lightly gagged the man, stuffing the material down his throat to tamp down his tongue, and shook him awake. He started and tried to scramble away, but Artemis held a dagger to his throat.

"Are you Sudin Al'Kreysha?" he asked. The man, terrified, nodded.

"Good. You'll come with me." Artemis whispered another word, and the inter-dimensional hole became just a little ball again. It fell into his waiting hand. He tucked it into his belt-purse, and grabbed the cuff of the man's shirt, steering him out the door.

The slightly plump merchant was wild-eyed, and he seemed scared out of his mind. Artemis decided to free him from the gag when he reached the street—he seemed scared enough to try to bribe his way out, and that never ceased to amuse the assassin.

Of course, if he started screaming, the gag would go straight back into place, and a painful lesson would be taught to the naïve merchant. He had brought along those healing potions, after all...

They exited the house without incident; when they neared the door, Artemis cast an invisibility sphere over them, and opened the door very quietly and slightly. He slipped out, and dragged the man after him. Fortunately, nobody noticed them.

As soon as they were out of sight of the house, Artemis released the man's gag. As expected, he cowered and tried to break free. The assassin grimly twisted one wrist behind his back, and smiled as the merchant flinched and fell still.

"I—I could give you money...How much do you want?" he asked desperately. Artemis remained silent. "I'll give you my house, my business, _anything_! You'd be a rich man..."

"I'm already a rich man." Said Artemis. "Richer, after this." The man visibly paled, but Artemis thought he was rather stupid. If he had wanted to kill him, he wouldn't have bothered sneaking the man out of his own house; he would have just killed him.

"I didn't even get to say goodbye..." the merchant sighed, but now seemed resigned to his fate. "How much is my life worth to you? I'll top anything you've been paid!"

"As I have been paid in information, I doubt you could top that. However, my goal is not your death. I am merely...delivering you to somebody." The merchant seemed to relax, but his tension returned twofold after Artemis uttered his next sentence. "Pasha Pook wishes to extend generosity, and to help you through your hard times—after all, that is the only reason you could have stopped paying up, isn't it?"

The man whitened under his Calimshan tan, and flinched.

"I—You're taking me to Pasha Pook?" He tried another run-away attempt; this time, instead of just twisting his wrist behind his back, Artemis broke it. "Aaaaah." He whimpered. Artemis smiled, and nudged the broken arm.

"Yes." Even with the broken arm, the man did not give up. He tried yet again to run away; perhaps he figured that with a broken arm, there was nothing worse that could happen to him.

"I am _this_ close to breaking both of your legs." Artemis hissed. "If you try that one more time, I may just take up Pook's offer of torture. He gave me leave to play with you as I wished, you know." The last was said in a menacing, poison-filled, yet almost casual tone. The assassin's eyes were malevolent, and the merchant shrank back, now following dutifully, tears leaking out of his eyes every once in a while at the pain his shattered elbow presented. Artemis shrugged. The man had asked for it.

They arrived at Pook's guild-house without further escape attempts. Right before entering it, Artemis made the man drink one of the healing potions, and then prodded him forward, up all the stairs to Pook's throne-room.

When the hill-giant guards saw him, they moved speedily, yanking open the doors. Artemis pushed the merchant into the room, and moved in behind him. He forced the merchant to bow to Pook, giving the Pasha only a nod himself.

"He made three escape attempts." He told Pook, before nodding again and leaving the room. He did not want to know what Pook would to do the wayward merchant.

All in all, Artemis reflected, life could be worse.

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A/N: This chapter was a little over nine pages long.


	4. Avenging Angel

The Many Facets of Artemis Entreri: Chapter 4

Featuring:

Avenging Angel

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Artemis Entreri ghosted around what he considered his home city, footsteps as light as a cat's.

He smiled his cruel, faintly ironic smile as he surveyed his domain: red lights district of Calimport.

Fear ruled here, and Artemis was fear embodied in a human vessel.

Although he couldn't forget the pasha that had gotten him here. He had killed old man Basadoni with his own two hands. That was how he was repaid for taking a homeless child off the streets.

That was how he was repaid for making that child an assassin.

Artemis' musings turned grim. Death seemed to be the fate of any person he associated with, whether by his hand or not; at this point, he had stopped trying.

The assassin's ears perked up when he heard faint shrieks in a nearby house. He shrugged, pegging it for a child misbehaving, but nonetheless moved closer.

"Shut up, ye brat!" he heard a man roar. Another cry of pain followed that.

Against his will, Artemis sneaked up to the door, peering into the keyhole. There, right in the center of the room, was a man, leaning over a child. Artemis shrugged. That was common enough. But then his blood froze when he noted just one thing.

The man's pants were down, as were the child's.

Artemis turned away. This was something he did not want to watch. He had been on the receiving end of that treatment much too often to even want to think about it.

Something within him made him stop. If he'd been saved from the hell that had been his life, he would have worshipped his savior for the rest of his days.

Wouldn't this child feel the same way?

How could he abandon somebody to the same fate he had escaped from? Perhaps the child would run to the streets, and perhaps itwould evade its parents.

But would it evade the child brothel collectors, the guild collectors, the temple collectors...

He drew out his lock picks, and realized that the door wasn't even bolted. He sneered, and pushed it open. The door banged on the wall, and the man didn't even turn around, still intent on his human plaything.

People like him made Artemis sick. He cleared his throat.

"What de ye want?!" roared the man before turning. When he realized it was a stranger, he stopped, and pulled his pants up. The child's whimpers had been much turned down in volume, but Artemis could still hear him. He felt sick.

"To end your miserable existence." Artemis said, his tone, demeanor, and indeed, his entire body, cold.

The man pulled a holy symbol from around his neck. "I have the protection of Tyr!" he said.

Artemis wanted to vomit.

"You sicken me." Was all he said. "Look away." That he directed to the terrified child. It scrambled away. In one clean gesture, the man's life was gone.

That's all it needed to kill a man, Artemis reflected. One swipe with an edged blade and bam. He's gone.

He wiped his dagger on the edge of the man's shirt, and slid it back into its sheath. Then he went through the door the child went through, and found it shaking in the corner. Leaving it now would be crueler than leaving it to its father's "affections", if it had no other means of supporting itself.

"Do you have a mother?" he asked brusquely. The child shook its head. "You're coming with me, then."

The poor thing was shaking. Artemis sighed before holding out his hand.

"How old are you?" he asked, crouching down to seem less frightening.

"Seven." The child said. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you kill him?"

"You remind me of myself." Was all the explanation Artemis would offer.

"Thank you." It—Artemis realized it was a boy now—said.

"You're...welcome. Come with me."

The boy eyed him mistrustfully, but took his hand, and got up, stalking behind him. His eyes were bewildered as he saw the people take one look at his protector, and hurry out of the way.

"Where are we going?" he asked tentatively

"To Pasha Pook."

The child cowered. "Why?"

"Because I work for him. I'll speak for you, and you'll get a nice room, a roof over your head, and food. And I'll make sure you'll be something mundane like a...a cook or something."

"Oh." Said the child. After several minutes, he spoke up. "I...I don't think I want to be a cook." He said.

"Then what do you want to be?" asked Artemis, humoring the poor, traumatized, scrap of humanity.

"Something brave and exciting! Something dangerous!"

"So? I don't know any professions that fit that job description...at least, none that put food in your mouth. What do you want to be?" The killer asked, talking to the seven year old as an equal.

"An assassin." The boy said, quiet and serious.

Artemis felt the bile rise in his throat.

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This chapter is four pages long. Enjoy.


	5. Malicious Lover

The Many Facets of Artemis Entreri: Chapter 5

Featuring:

Malicious Lover

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Theerla sighed and lay passively as Artemis thrust into her. Something must have angered him; usually, when he was calm, he was a more caring and tender lover. She sighed again and half-heartedly dug her fingernails into his shoulders, which she knew he liked.

It was times like these that made her wonder how she had ended up with the famed assassin Artemis Entreri in her bed—and in her heart.

She thought back. She couldn't even remember the first time they had met, or what the circumstances had been. All she remembered was a flash of his dark eyes. Then, somehow, they'd been miraculously transported to her apartment; it must have been magic, because again, Theerla had no recollection of how it had happened.

She did remember their first time together, though. She suspected that it had been his first time altogether, not just with her, because the assassin had been rather flustered and a little clueless. As a result, he had gotten angry.

He'd been very rough those first times.

It had taken Theerla a while to drum some things into his head, and for him to learn some things for himself. Now, after several years, Artemis certainly had the _capacity_ to please her—it was just that most of the time, he didn't use it.

He was coming to her tenser and tenser every time, angrier and angrier. It was obviously something to do with his work, but every time she asked him, he would either brush away her inquiries, or start shouting at her.

She would ask him again today, but this time _after_ the sex.

Then, as if to answer her wishes, he shuddered and groaned (he never shouted). She could feel him releasing inside of her.

Theerla herself had derived little pleasure from the whole ordeal. If he was going to keep on being selfish like this, what was the use of sleeping with him? Let him find a prostitute. Why did she keep doing this?!

Because she loved him.

Because she was jealous.

She didn't want him with another woman, even if it _was_ just mindless sex to him.

Theerla sighed, and felt Artemis disengage. She reached her hand up to his face and stroked his cheek, clean-shaven as always. "Artemis," she said, "why were you so tense?"

"Mind your own business, woman." Came the weak reply.

"But it is my business," she said calmly, brushing her hand over his forehead, twining into his silky hair. "It is my business when you come to me so agitated that you can't even carry a conversation, let alone give me any pleasure before you take yours. Your anger affects me, too." She eyed his resolute features, which were starting to get over his euphoria. They were morphing back to his standard scowl.

She didn't want him getting his right mind back; she just wanted him to answer her question!

She reached down and stroked. "Aaaah," sighed Artemis. Then his tone became stern, angry. "I know what you're trying to do. It's not going to work."

"Isn't it?" she asked, knowing that she was angering him, and also not caring, as she squeezed.

"N—nooo..." Came the reply through clenched teeth. Her hand left him, and came back up to his face. She turned his head so that he was looking her in the eye.

"Artemis Entreri, I cannot keep doing this. If you will not tell me what is wrong, go find yourself a prostitute, for neither my home, nor my legs, will open for you any longer." She said resolutely.

"Fine." He said, and for a moment she thought she'd won. "Do you know any good whores?" She burst into muffled cries, and collapsed onto his chest. He pushed her off. "Well? Do you?" he prodded.

"I hate you." She said forcefully. "Go. Leave this house. You are welcome in it no longer."

"Nor would I want to be," he hissed. "Know that you were a convenience, no more."

"A five year long convenience?" she asked spitefully, tears running down her face. "You care about me, Artemis Entreri, and you know it. You will be running back for forgiveness within the week. And I won't give it to you. Not until you tell me what is so gods-damned bothering you that you're a rigid plank the whole day!!!" She was screaming at the end.

Theerla knew, abstractly, that it was a bad idea to taunt or scream at the most dangerous man in all of Calimport, but at the moment, she wasn't scared.

When Artemis threw the covers out and stalked out of bed as lithely as a panther, she didn't worry. As he pulled his pants on, she could see how tense his muscles were, how they were almost jumping. She knew he wanted to kill her. But she still didn't care.

He slung on his weapons belt, and Theerla couldn't help but admire him one last time. His trade required that he be fit, but Artemis took fitness to the next level. She had once sworn that he was all one big muscle. Then he buttoned up his shirt, and that sight was hidden behind the light fabric.

The moonlight shone into the room as he opened the curtains. He drew his dagger, the jeweled one, and juggled it, from hand to hand. It was now that Theerla knew the first stirring of fear. He smiled ferally at her expression which was now slightly fearful.

"Don't worry," he said, "I'm not going to be the one to kill you. Yet." Then, to her horrified expression, he slammed her window up, and gracefully jumped out. She ran to the window, and looked around, scared that she was going to see a big splat on the street (her apartment was on the third floor), but she could see nothing.

Then, a small figure dressed in black almost seemed to float to the ground, rolling to absorb the impact. It got up and walked away, not even sending a backward glance towards her.

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One month later:

Artemis Entreri stood before his ex-lover's building, looking up. He couldn't count how many times he had wanted to go back and apologize over the last month. But...he knew what was stopping him.

She had predicted that he would come back, with his tail between his legs.

He didn't want her to be right.

And so he tilted his head back down, tucked his hands into his pockets, slumped, and walked away.

His pride wouldn't let him apologize—it couldn't _let_ her be right.

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Theerla lay sprawled on her bed, crying. He hadn't come back. It had been a month, and he hadn't come back. It had finally sunk in that, after all they had said, it had been too much. Artemis wasn't coming back.

She wished that she had never said all the things she did...but she had been going mad! No, she thought resolutely, I did the right thing.

That didn't make it hurt any less.

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A/N: This was just barely five pages; enjoy.


	6. Daddy

The Many Facets of Artemis Entreri: Chapter 6

Featuring:

Daddy

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A six-year-old Colin Entreri swung his legs gleefully, feeling like he was on top of the world. It was his birthday, and his newfound father had taken him out to the market in celebration. For once, the big men that constantly followed him around were gone, and Colin was glad. He glanced around from his high vantage point, and giggled.

They had been walking through the Main Thoroughfare. His father had kept on tugging at his hand, walking faster than Colin's legs could keep up. He had complained, and his father had flashed him a half-smile a second before swinging him up to rest on his thin but muscled shoulders.

Colin suddenly saw something that interested him; the bright flash of feathers to his left. Correspondingly, he tugged at his father's left ear, pointing with his other hand.

"Left! Left! To the birdies!" he crowed. His father winced, and brushed the boy's hand from its chokehold on his ear. Nevertheless, he complied, steering towards the brightly-colored plumage. Colin gaped as he neared the stall, the songs of the birds entrancing him. He was mesmerized by their bright crests and fanciful wings.

"I want one, daddy." He said softly, hypnotized by their calls.

"Well, it _is _your birthday..." his father seemed to think it over.

"Pleeeeeaaaase?" Colin wheedled, tugging his father's ear again. From his place on his shoulders, he couldn't see the man wince.

"Will you remember to feed it?" His father asked, once again prying the child's hand from his ear.

"...Maybe?" asked Colin, hoping that was the right answer. His father chuckled, and Colin knew that he'd said the right thing.

"You're truthful, at least." He murmured. "Alright, but you _will_ have to clean up the cage and make sure they have enough food and water. If your mother tells me that you haven't been doing that, you'll be in trouble." He warned.

"Okay." Colin said in childish eagerness. Artemis knew that the boy, as a six-year-old, would probably not remember to care for the birds...but he also couldn't bring himself to deny his son a bird. A bird's a lot less trouble than a puppy, he rationalized.

"Which one do you want?" Artemis gave in.

"Umm...That one, that one, that one, that one—" Colin pointed at each one.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, there Colin." His father interrupted. "I'm not made of gold! I'll get you two, but _only_ two."

"Only two?" asked Colin, disappointed.

"Yes. Would you rather have none?"

"No..." Colin frowned, scrunching up his little features. "I guess I'll get...those two." He pointed at two multi-colored birds. They were a mix of orange, blue, green, red, and yellow feathers.

"Ahh, good choice young master. Those are very smart birds." A very shifty and nervous-looking man came up to them, hunching up. "They are parrots, delivered from a distant land. They can learn how to speak."

"They can?" asked Colin, excited at the thought of birds who could talk.

"Only phrases, if you teach them. They know how to say a few things now."

"Really? What can they say?" Colin leaned forward over his father's head.

"Ask it 'how do you do.'" Said the merchant.

"How do you do." Asked Colin, staring at the birds. The bigger one fixed a beady eye at him, and opened its beak.

"Fine! Fine!" it screeched. Colin clapped his hands while Entreri's lip lifted.

"How much for the birds, a big cage, and some seed?" his father asked. While the merchant and the assassin haggled, Colin just stared at the birds, smiling to himself.

His father turned and began walking away.

"H-hey! Where are you going?!" Colin panicked. He didn't want to leave the birds!

"He's going to keep the birds until later today, when I send somebody to pick them up." Artemis reassured his son. Huh. It was still strange to think that he, of all people, had a son that he'd never known about.

"Oh." Colin sighed and relaxed.

"Now what do you want to do?" his father asked him.

"I'm hungry. I want a cake." Colin said.

"Alright. I know a place that you will lo-ove." Said his father teasingly. He charged off, Colin steering his 'steed' by turning his head into whatever direction he wanted to go.

They reached Tsumida's Bakery in record time, and Artemis bought Colin a pastry. He set the boy down at a table, and watched him eat. As soon as Colin was finished, he stood up and walked to his dad.

"Thank you, daddy." Colin said, before throwing sticky hands around his father. Artemis hid a wince, and hugged his son back. Then, he patiently walked him to the nearest well, and washed off his grubby fingers.

"Was that tasty?" he asked. Colin nodded emphatically. "Is it time to head home?"

"In a little while..." Colin wheedled. "Pleeeaaaase?" Artemis sighed, and rolled his eyes.

"Oh, the drama." He muttered to himself. "It's getting late." He said to the boy.

"Pretty please?" came the hopeful reply. The hardened assassin again rolled his eyes, but acquiesced.

"Fine, but only for half an hour."

"Yaaaaaay! Thank you!" Colin jumped up and down exuberantly. Artemis winced, glad that the boy was on the ground; had he still been on his father's shoulders, Artemis was sure that the bouncing would have hurt.

Artemis began slowly making his way back to the house he had bought for Colin and his mother, swinging the boy back up to his shoulders. On the way back, they picked up the birds, several bags of tasty treats, a few picture books, and an entire miniature caravan, carved out of wood, for Colin to play with.

When they finally reached the house it was late, way past Colin's bedtime. He wasn't hungry, so Theerla washed his face, changed him into pyjamas, and put him to bed. She read him _two_ stories as a birthday treat, and kissed his forehead. Then she left the room, and Colin's father entered.

Colin sleepily blinked at his daddy. "Thank you for the presents." He said like his mother had instructed him.

"You're welcome." His father said. "Happy birthday." He, too, kissed his son's forehead, and tucked him in, before standing up and getting ready to leave.

"Don't go." Said Colin. "I want mommy, too." Artemis gave a little helpless look, before promising to get Colin's mother. Both adults soon reappeared, and both sat on his bed, side by side, until he fell asleep.

"I'm leaving." Artemis said, once the boy's breathing evened out. He turned to go, but a hand plucked at his sleeve. He looked back at Theerla, who was still sitting on Colin's bed, gazing up at him.

"Thank you for making his day." She said. "His life would've been so different if you hadn't learned that I had him..." she trailed off.

"Well, that's your fault, isn't it?" Said Artemis caustically, turning to leave again. "I'm not the one who broke it off because I got pregnant, now am I? I'm not the one who turned her lover away, even when he came back and apologized, out of fear. I'm not the one who got scared and ran away." He didn't even look over his shoulder as he walked out of the room that he had furnished, the house that he had purchased, and away from the guards that he had hired.

Sometimes he wished he'd never met her.

He strolled down the street, hands in his pockets, merrily whistling to a bawdy tune, and smiled to himself.

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A/N: This is approximately five pages long.


	7. Opportunist

The Many Facets of Artemis Entreri: Chapter 7

Featuring:

Opportunist

A/N: Calimport is technically built upon a desert, I believe, and desert regions, however hot they are during the day, cool down rapidly during the night, even reaching negative numbers. I forget whether it rains, but it will for my purposes. 

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Enyhar Therelon squatted in the shadow of a broken-down shack, and waited. He observed the way the filth of the streets squished between his toes, shifting his feet and amusing himself with the squelching sound. But soon he stood and sighed; not one person had tossed even a copper in his collection bowl.

He picked up a small sack that held all of his worldly belongings, and thrust the bowl into it. He crept quietly into an alley, first making sure that nobody was already occupying it. He'd already had one close call with a lecherous old man who had chosen the alley Enyhar had entered as his lair. Enyhar shook his head to get rid of that memory—it brought back too many others—and sunk deep into the shadows. His strange way of becoming one with any sort of shadow had saved him more than once.

Enyhar opened the small sack, and rummaged inside, pulling out his only other set of clothes. He had two. One set was the rags he was wearing now, designed to garner him the most pity possible from passers-by. The second was the nicest clothes he could get, stolen form an unattended clothing line. The brown breeches and dark blue shirt weren't anything fancy, but they were made of good material, and even better, they didn't have any rips or tears. Enyhar made sure to wash them in the fountain every once in a while so that they would at least seem clean, if not well-tended.

These were his stealing clothes.

With this outfit on, he blended with hundreds of other little boys, all running errands for their masters. Last came the cheap sandals that had cost Enyhar a few precious coppers but were vital to his disguise.

After he slipped those on, he shoved the dirty rags into his bag, and stealthily sneaked out. He tightly gripped the only weapon he had, a small silver dagger, in his right hand. It wouldn't do him any good in a fight, but it was good for relieving men of their purses.

Of course, he wasn't dexterous enough to get just anybody. His targets were usually drunks. Those would start emerging in an hour; for now, he would try to steal his supper.

One vendor-tender turned her back, and Enyhar was able to slip two apples into his shirt. That was a treat. Usually the fruit vendors watched their wares like hawks; the woman must be new.

Enyhar suddenly saw a woman hurry in front of him, her shopping bag gaping open. He homed in on her, relieving her of a small loaf of bread. All in all, a good dinner; much better than what he got most of the time. He even managed to scrounge a piece of cheese from a merchant closing up for the night; it was so ripe that it would rot by tomorrow, so the merchant had given the small bit left to the pale and hungry-looking boy loitering around the market.

After all, what coins Enyhar did manage to steal didn't add up to much, and he was trying to save up for a coat or a pair of shoes. Winter was quickly approaching, and he wasn't going to spend another winter without them. The first year he'd been in Calimport, he'd discarded his coat; the desert city was _hot_. That very night, he'd regretted it; the howling wind and rain making him trudge back and try to find the garment.

Luckily for him, he'd found it exactly where he'd thrown it in a fit of impetuousness, slightly more ragged, but still serviceable. It had taken him two years to outgrow it and his shoes, but he'd had no money to buy any new clothes. He had spent a miserable winter, his third in the nasty city, fearing frostbite and courting death every night. This would be his fourth winter in the city, and he was determined not to spend it without a coat again.

Also luckily, he had never been caught stealing. If he had, it would probably have been death for him, a young run-away from Memnon that nobody gave a shit about.

He mentally prepared himself; now was about the time the drunks started appearing, and if he could cut only one or two purses, perhaps he would have enough to give the cobbler to start making a pair of shoes. The only cheap footgear sold in the market was sandals, which were not of any help in the nightly showers Calimport was graced with during the winter.

Enyhar spotted a man staggering out of a nearby tavern. He seemed to be heading to the back, perhaps to claim a horse. That was good. That meant that he had a lot of money. There weren't many in Calimport that could afford a horse.

Enyhar hurried after the man, darting up to him. He felt no resistance as his small knife cut the purse-strings neatly. He caught the purse softly, making sure not to let a single clank of coins escape, and ran away, his now-bare feet making no sound against the filth-infested street.

He slid into a nearby alley—unoccupied, by his reckoning—and opened the purse. His eyes widened as he counted out the sums. One...two...three...four...A happy grin broke over his features. There were _ten_ gold pieces in the purse, seven silvers, and fourteen coppers. That was more than enough to pay for the shoes, and he'd even have some left over for the coat!

He tucked the purse into his bag, and repressed his smile; if anybody spotted it, he would be in trouble.

Enyhar managed to target only one other man for the day, but he didn't mind. The bounty he'd gotten from the first man more than made up for everything, even the lack of money in his collection bowl.

The very next morning, he hurried to the cobbler. The old man took one look at him, raised his eyebrows, and said: "I charge good money for my wares. Do you be happenin' to have any?"

"How much for a pair?" Enyhar said stoutly.

"Seven gold for one made to your specifications, four and a half for any ready-made pair, at least your size. Do you have that much money?" his tone indicated that he doubted it. His mouth shut with an audible click when Enyhar withdrew four golds and five silvers from his purse and set them on the man's desk.

"Them's my savings." He said, scowling, in answer to the man's searching look. The man shrugged, and led him to a stool, bringing over several pairs of shoes for him to try on. Enyhar professed to not owning even a pair of socks, so the man grumbled and searched around, finally coming up with a pair.

"You can keep em'." He said, blushing slightly.

Enyhar settled on a pair of boots way too big for him; he could always stuff them with rags if they moved around too much, which was good for insulation. If he got a pair that fit him just right now, they wouldn't in a few months. Better to go large than to have to pay another five golds after so little time.

After that, he still had enough money left to buy him a coat, so he wandered around in the market. He found a likely-seeming stall, and perused the wares, deciding on a long gray trench-coat. The outside was waterproofed material, but the inside was comfortable flannel.

The merchant demanded six golds for it, on account of it being waterproof and all, so Enyhar sighed and handed over the last of the money he had gleaned from the rich drunkard. It was a pity, because he was sure that he'd need that money some time down the road. He shrugged. He'd just need to rob some more drunk old men.

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Enyhar glanced around, and zoned in on today's target. His fourth winter in Calimport had passed quickly, now that he had proper clothing to protect him from the elements. Over the miserable winter, he had even saved up enough to buy himself a dagger. The seller had charged twenty golds for it, claiming that it was magical, but Enyhar was of the opinion that the gold lattice-work on the hilt and the huge emerald embedded in that gold was of the most value to the man. Regardless, when Enyhar had seen that dagger, he'd just known that he had to have it. He _needed_ it.

Enyhar neared his mark, and swiftly cut the man's purse. He was even hurrying away before the purse started...well, shrieking.

"_Master! Master! Get this dirty little thief-boy's hands_ off _me!_" it caterwauled in a shrill and panicked sounding voice. Enyhar groaned, and, instead of throwing the purse to the side and fleeing like he, in retrospect, should have, he clutched onto the bizarre thing and started running. Before long, a strong hand grasped his wrist, pulling him to a stop.

"Hand me back my purse, boy. It'll stop screaming if you do." The tall man said, his steely eyes scanned the small boy's face. "Hmm. I didn't even feel it..." he muttered to himself as he took the purse and weighed it. The scrap of leather went thankfully silent. Then, the boy froze: he was standing in front of one of the best known assassins and thieves in all of Calimport. He gulped, and contemplated running—he would have chanced it if the man didn't have an iron grip on his wrist. Finally, the man squared his shoulders decisively.

"Come with me."

"W—where?"

"We're going to Pasha Basadoni. Of the Thieves' Guild." He clarified, when Enyhar looked blank. "You're going to become a thief if I have anything to say about it.

Enyhar sighed. He wasn't going to be killed. But...he didn't know whether to believe the man or not. He supposed he had to. He hurried after the scary man—after all, with the grip he had on Enyhar's wrist, if he didn't hurry it would break—into a district of Calimport he had never explored.

He stopped in front of a grand building, knocking on the door and conversing with somebody through a peephole. Then the doors swung open, and he dragged Enyhar in. The boy surveyed his surroundings with more than a tinge of awe: he was walking upon a plush carpet, leading down a long but well-lit hallway. Golden statues and large paintings decorated the walls, and chandeliers dropped from the ceiling every twenty feet. He gaped as he was dragged up several flights of stairs—he gaped all the way up to this Pasha's apparent throne-room.

"Well, what has my favorite assassin brought me, to return so early from a mission?"

"Don't call me that." The man said in distaste. "I've brought you what will become a first rate thief, if you want him. He doesn't belong to anybody, do you?" The man directed the last at Enyhar.

"No sir." Said Enyhar respectfully, bobbing his head; these were important men.

"We don't need more thieves right now...but you can teach him anyways. Have him trained as an assassin as well. Those, we _are_ in need of."

"Assassins and thieves use many of the same skills." Enyhar's captor said, nodding. "Very well."

"So, what will your assassin name be?" the Pasha asked Enyhar.

"_Me_?" He asked incredulously, shocked that he'd even been addressed. Everything was going so fast that he didn't even know what was going on.

"Yes, you. What is to be your assassin name?"

"A—Artemis. Artemis Entreri." Enyhar suddenly decided. No, he realized; he was Enyhar no longer. Now, he was Entreri. Nobody he knew would refer to him as Enyhar Therelon ever again.

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A/N: soooo, did I manage to keep you in suspense as to who Enyhar was, or did you guess? I mean, that bit about the dagger he bought kind of gave it away, but...Please give me feedback about that.

This chapter is six pages long.


	8. Broken Child

The Many Facets of Artemis Entreri: Chapter 8

Featuring:

Broken Child

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Enyhar Therelon scampered into the alleyways of Memnon, making a dash for it. His father was drunk, and he knew what that meant.

The seven-year-old sighed as he made it to the shadows. _Safety_, he thought, as he seemed to melt into the darkness.

Not many boys of his years could slink into shadows as effectively as he could. Enyhar had been forced to develop the trait; if he hadn't, he probably would have been dead by now.

He usually knew when his father was coming home drunk; a tingling in his bones warned him. He used his uncanny abilities—one inborn, one learned—to disappear, and escape beatings...or worse.

Before his mother had died, it hadn't been like this. But then, it had hardly been much different; his father had only taken everything out on her.

Enyhar groaned, and clutched his stomach. He hadn't eaten in two days. This was nothing new, but the gnawing hunger wouldn't leave him alone. The short, skinny scrap of a boy glanced around, and walked to the market. Usually the vendors were handing out their extra food right about now. Wares that would spoil if kept another night would be distributed among the poor and wretched-looking.

He staggered along, and made it before collapsing. He tried to look pitiful and weak—an act that was not much of an act at the moment.

Somebody shoved something in his hands. He muttered thanks, not even looking up. Quickly, lest somebody else see, he ripped off half of the small loaf of bread, for that was what it was, and stuffed it in his mouth. In a few seconds, he was staring at his empty hands.

As he wandered around the market, he gathered another small loaf, and a dubious smelling piece of hard sausage. He gathered up his bounty, and quickly fled, not wanting another urchin to beat him and take away his food.

He devoured the feast in less than a minute, but didn't go back for more. His shrunken stomach couldn't handle anything else. He knew from experience that if he ate any more, he would throw up.

The past two days, his father hadn't let him out of the house. He'd locked him into his small, closet-like room during the day. When he'd returned from his work as a priest of Tyr, he'd (as always) done things to Enyhar, things that the boy didn't want to think about.

Enyhar violently shook his head, and tried to think where he could sleep that night. It wasn't quite winter yet, so it wouldn't be too cold to sleep on the streets. Not that he'd get much sleep, fearing rats and kidnappers all night.

He supposed he could blend in with the children at the orphanage. If an urchin or two appeared with the regular children once in a while, the minders turned a blind eye. Enyhar got up, but reminded himself that he couldn't go there for another month or so. His father would be very angry when he returned. He'd have to have an excuse.

Enyhar would say he'd been working for a merchant.

But then he'd have to have money.

On his way to the orphanage, he took a chance, and lifted a silver from a man's open belt-purse. The man did not notice.

Enyhar crept into the creaking and run-down building, settling on the floor with the other children, and tried to sleep, clutching the silver.

When Enyhar woke up, it was a little before dawn. He crept out of the orphanage, and walked back home, avoiding the few people already out on the street. When he reached his house, he shimmied in through his window. Only a stunted child of his proportions could fit. Enyhar pulled a blanket over himself, and huddled in the corner, like he usually did.

This was his bed, this hard piece of floor.

It was nearly noon before his father woke up with a killer hang-over. It didn't matter; today was not one of his working days.

Enyhar wasn't sure what would get him into more trouble: to stay when his father had a terrible headache, or to run away and return later. He decided to stay. He didn't have an excuse for being away today readily available, and his father wouldn't believe the merchant thing twice in a row.

Enyhar could hear heavy footsteps. '_Please,_' he prayed, '_keep going._' The footsteps paused right at his door, and he groaned soundlessly. Just his luck! His door creaked open, and his father, dressed still in the rumpled clothes of last night, stepped in. Enyhar shivered, trying to appear as insubstantial as possible.

"So you're here today, eh? Didn't decide to run away, you ungrateful little brat?" Enyhar just bowed his head. "What were you doing yesterday, imbecile?"

"Working, sir." He said in a subservient tone.

"At what?"

"A merchant was packing up, sir. He hired me to help him finish. Sir." Enyhar hoped the lie would hold up. He didn't see why not; he had grown practiced enough at them.

"Where's your pay?" growled his father. Enyhar still didn't dare meet his gaze, but held up a silver. "Humph. Good." The priest said. Enyhar dared to imagine that he would get away with it. "But, I never gave you permission to go out. You were to stay in your room, remember?" a malicious smile matched his vicious tone. Enyhar said nothing. "Well?!"

"Yes sir. I remember, sir." The boy said, practically groveling.

"Ah. So you chose to defy me?" There was nothing Enyhar could say. "You need to be punished, boy. Tut tut. How long has it been? A day? Two? How quickly you forget my lessons."

Enyhar cowered in terror, his dark eyes finally snapping up to his father's. The man growled again. "You dare look upon me?!"

"No sir." Enyhar whispered, dropping his gaze once more. But the older man had seen it.

"Take off your pants," the priest said in a dangerous tone, "_now!_" Enyhar fumbled at the length of rope that took the place of his belt. It was apparently taking too long for his father's tastes. The man lashed out with a foot, kicking Enyhar squarely in the crotch. The boy doubled up and moaned, falling to the floor, prone. His father literally just ripped the seat of his pants off, pulling him up by the scruff of his neck.

Enyhar felt himself being lifted up, pinned to the wall. Then, there was just pain, that familiar, indescribable pain.

Suddenly, the pain seemed to shrink, to grow distant. Enhyar's mind felt foggy. Who was that boy being raped? It certainly wasn't him._ He_ was in his mother's arms, feeling warm and loved. _He_ was playing in a field, wearing fine clothing and chasing after a butterfly. It wasn't him. IT WASN'T HIM!

And when Enyhar lay on the ground, broken and beaten, surrounded by blood and other fluids he didn't want to consider, he really didn't feel all that bad. Why should he? This was just a dream, just a nightmare created by his overactive imagination.

And when his father came back that night, drunk and roaring mad, when he found Enyhar in the same position he left him in, when he screamed and hit and raped the limp child again, Enyhar felt nothing. There was only sunshine and flowers and love. And why shouldn't there be? Soon this dream would end, this life would end. Enyhar sighed, and slumped onto the ground.

It would all end soon. And if it ended, maybe he would wake up.

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A/N: This chapter was exactly four pages long.

Well, this is the end for now, unless anybody else has any inspiration for me. I would be most eager to do paired chapters, like these are, but if anybody has a really clear one-shot for me, I may take you up on it!  Thank you just for reading, but please, take the time out of your day to review. It's not too hard. Even if it's just to let me know that you've read it, even if it's just 'hi, it's great, bye', it still makes my day (I'm totally serious).

So...Thank you all. 3 3 3 to every reader, and double that (plus brownies) to every reviewer. I'll even be nice, and give you a cup of milk to go along.


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